by Cara Witter
Nikaenor looked upset, and Saara realized he must not be used to theological debates. “It might not be that she couldn’t,” he said “it might just be that—”
“She chose not to help you, then.”
“That’s not fair!” Nikaenor put his foot down in a puddle, splashing mud all over his breeches and wincing.
Saara raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s not fair?”
“You fight like Aralie. She’s always saying things before I finish and tangling my words, and I hate when she does that.” Now he sounded petulant, like Girin, Talia’s youngest sister, when she felt that people were leaving her out of conversations because of her age.
There was silence again for a few moments, and Saara listened to the swamp. She was used to the sounds of the cliff city—wheels on stone, the chatter of people, pulleys clinking and ropes groaning as cargo was lifted from one level to another. The wilderness of Foroclae was equally loud, but with different sounds. Insects chittered restlessly, and the sharp, piercing chirp of a beetle rang and was answered from deep in the bog. The croak of a bullfrog sounded intermittently, and Nikaenor turned toward it, as if wondering if it was close enough to catch.
“We go south,” Saara said. “And then gods know where else.”
Nikaenor must have decided against going after the frog and instead crossed his arms sullenly. She probably shouldn’t have baited him. She might not be pleased with Nerendal, but she also wouldn’t appreciate a foreigner making claims about him. “I didn’t mean to insult your belief.”
Nikaenor waved a hand at her. “It’s all right,” he said with a little shrug. “It’s just . . . no one knows how much the gods can help, really. Maybe it’s just what my parents taught me, but I think Mirilina can see us and help us. Maybe not like before, but in her own way. But who knows. Maybe the gods really can’t do anything and are just waiting in their stones for the godbearers to find them.”
Saara tested a boot in the muck farther off the road and cringed at the expected squelch. “Godbearers?” Saara had never heard that term before. She supposed the translation of the word in the Tirostaari Chronicle might be different.
Nikaenor looked at her like she was stupid. “The ones who are going to use the stones to defeat Maldorath when he returns someday.”
There were plenty of apocryphal copies of the Chronicle drifting around, but Saara read the official version approved by the Order of Nerendal, and it said no such thing. “Did someone tell you that story?” she asked.
Now Nikaenor looked fully offended. “It’s in the Chronicle.”
Saara took another step, finding steady footing on a rock jutting out of the mud. “I thought you couldn’t read.”
Nikaenor scrunched his brow. “I can’t. But what does that have to do—”
“I’ve read the Banishment Chronicle dozens of times in my language,” she said. “But it says nothing about any godbearers. It must be a Foroclaean fishtale.”
“I’ve heard it told lots of times,” he said. “Mum and Dad always have some of the neighbors over—not on Banishment Day, but during other times of the year, when the soldiers don’t expect it, and we have a retelling in our storage cellar.”
Saara paused. “And does it change from year to year?”
Nikaenor shook his head. “No, it’s always the same. My sister Aralie learned to read by it.” He looked at her. “Why wouldn’t yours talk about the bearers? They’re the point of the story, aren’t they?”
Saara always thought the point of the story was that she and her cousins were to protect Nerendal. They were the only ones entrusted with their god. The other three had hidden themselves away. She moved through the swamp, stepping from rock to rock, seeking the higher ground of the hill to the west.
If they couldn’t find a better path, perhaps they could stay off the road long enough to evade any patrols that might have been traveling with the soldiers who’d passed, and find a road going south.
Nikaenor looked at her expectantly as he followed her onto the dryer ground of the hill, which Saara was grateful to see was the beginning of a higher patch of thick, reedy grass. She ignored the question. She had no copy of the Chronicle here, and Nikaenor had already admitted he believed things only because he wanted to, not because of any sort of evidence or proof. “And the soldiers have never discovered your readings?”
“If they had, our inn wouldn’t have been there anymore for you to stumble into.” Nikaenor looked down at the ground. “They killed a boy last year, Ronan’s age. He was always going on about how much he hated Sevairn and the soldiers, how they were taking too much of our harvest and our wool, that sort of thing. Never in front of the soldiers, though. Then one day he just lost his good sense—or drank too much, no one really knew for sure—and he started to try to perform the Urtain. It’s a kind of a ritual to Mirilina. We make signs with our fingers across our lips, our feet, our eyes, all in a certain order. And there’s words to go with it. The soldiers weren’t going to miss that.”
“They killed him.”
“Eventually.” He was starting to sound defensive again. “They held him down, and they cut off his fingers first, then his lips and his feet, then cut out his eyes. All in the same order, see? And they laughed and they made up praises to Lord Diamis for each one. Then they killed him.”
Saara’s stomach dropped. She was no friend of Sevairn and had often sat in on meetings where her aunt was briefed on the likelihood of an invasion from the mainland empire. The general conclusion had always been that Diamis would eventually try to invade, and that he was very unlikely to be successful.
Saara had never worried much about it beyond that, and she’d certainly never given any thought to the conditions of those living here.
“Ever since then,” Nikaenor continued, his voice a little more solid than before, “we haven’t had many people willing to risk coming to hear the Banishment Chronicle anymore, but I don’t blame them.” He smacked a mosquito that had landed on his arm, then reached into his pack for the last remaining handful of white walnuts. “Maybe when you return, you should ask about the bearers’ part. It’s got to be there somewhere, doesn’t it?”
Saara shook her head. “I’ll never return,” she said. “And if I did, it wouldn’t be to chase after bedtime tales.”
“It’s not a tale,” Nikaenor said. “It’s our history.”
Saara fell silent. There was no point in continuing to argue about that.
Eighteen
When Lord Jaemeson of Grisham disembarked from the boat in the tiny southern Foroclaean town of Farrowton, he intended to find a pub, a tall mug of ale, and pretty girl who would help him forget about his upcoming report to the Dukes Council on his utter failure to seduce Lady Daniella. A task that had moved from difficult to impossible when she escaped back to Peldenar.
Jaeme stepped off the plank and onto the docks, which were held several yards above the water by barnacle-covered poles. From what he could see, the port town was set mostly on stilts because the fly-ridden marsh slipped right up to the edge of the sea, without leaving much more than a sandbar to stand on. Fishermen perched on poles that reached far beneath the water, their lines and nets extending out into the sea.
Farrowton wasn’t nearly the size of, say, Berlaith, but the docks were busy at this time of day. Passengers disembarked, cargo was loaded, and some savvy—or desperate—merchants negotiated with ships’ captains right on the gangplanks, and all of it seemed to be done loudly.
Jaeme threaded his way onto a main thoroughfare—also elevated above the lapping waves. He could smell the fish market down the walkway to his left, and so took the rightmost path, hoping to find a bar that didn’t smell like yesterday’s catch. With any luck, he’d find a barmaid who had more romantic ideas about the knighthood than the princess of Sevairn did. He could have a few drinks and invite her to share his room for the night
and prove to himself that he had not, in fact, completely lost his touch with women.
He found a tavern at the end of a pier, overlooking the ocean. In some towns this might have made it more upscale, but here it only meant it was situated directly above a family of sea lions barking loudly at each other and taking turns snapping at the crabs that scuttled around the pier poles.
Jaeme opened the door and stepped in, and while the din was no quieter in here, he consoled himself that if he couldn’t hear the barmaid speak, he wouldn’t have to risk the tongue lashing he’d suffered at the hands of Daniella.
And by the gods, if she’d really chosen to dally in Lord Tehlran’s bedroom rather than his, he was going to resign all claim to the seat of Grisham and retire to a country estate like his sickly mother.
Scanning the bar, his eyes stopped on a pair of travelers occupying a table in the corner. One was a boy who looked as if he might be Foroclaean, with sandy hair and a red complexion that indicated he’d spent more time out in the sun lately than he was accustomed to. The boy wore a plain, loose-sleeved shirt under a threadbare vest, with a thin cloak hooked over his shoulders, and he nervously toyed with one of his sleeves. The other traveler was a girl with dark skin and darker hair, probably from Tirostaar. She sat preternaturally still, her hands down at her sides. Probably clutching a weapon of some sort, if he’d had to guess.
Jaeme had known a Tirostaari girl once who hadn’t spoken his language. They’d gotten around that inconvenience well enough, and Jaeme had to admit he might have done better with Daniella had there been such a barrier. But this girl looked to be about ten years younger than Jaeme, which wasn’t his usual style.
He nodded to them, which earned him nothing in return but stares—hers of suspicion, his of confusion. There was something about the two of them that Jaeme found familiar, as if he recognized them from somewhere. And from the way they were staring at him, he couldn’t help but wonder if that might be the case, though he couldn’t for the life of him think of where it would be. Rather than stand there and stare any longer, Jaeme waved a hand and smiled, then made his way over to their table as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
The two of them watched him all the way across the room. “May I join you?” he asked, directing the question mainly at the girl. She nodded, though the boy was still staring at him, his confusion turning to disgust.
“What?” Jaeme asked. “Do I smell of bilge water? I’ve traveled all the way from Drepaine, and the trip didn’t afford many opportunities to wash up.”
Especially since, as a Mortichean, Jaeme had avoided going ashore in Sevairn, which accounted for all the ports between Drepaine and Berlaith. They might not be at war yet, but something about stepping onto the soil of Sevairn proper felt dirty to Jaeme, like a betrayal, and he did his best to stay away from anything of the sort.
“N-no, sir,” the boy said. “It’s just—” He looked back and forth and seemed at a loss to explain.
“I’ll order us a round of whatever you’re having,” Jaeme said, reaching over and taking a sip out of the boy’s ale.
“It’s just water,” the boy said.
So it was. Jaeme swung his leg over the short bench to sit down and ordered ales all around, though the boy reclaimed his water—which Jaeme now felt bad about swigging. The pair—who introduced themselves as Saara and Nikaenor—looked no older from this vantage, and both distinctly uncomfortable. Though Jaeme thought the latter might have been the environs as much as his joining them.
“So,” Nikaenor said, staring sullenly at his drink, like he’d just had the disappointment of his life. “Are you traveling through?”
Jaeme nodded. “I was headed home to Grisham to see my uncle, then on to Jenaium.”
“Jenaium?” Nikaenor’s eyes lit up in the first display of enthusiasm Jaeme had seen from him. “You’re a knight.”
“I am,” Jaeme said. “Though if you’re looking for tales of valor, look elsewhere. The knighthood isn’t anything like you’ve heard.”
“Really?” Nikaenor looked a bit crestfallen. “So you’re not on a quest to rescue a maiden or kill an evil blood mage?”
Saara looked sideways at Nikaenor. “Are there other kinds of blood mages?”
Nikaenor sputtered an unintelligible response and took a long drink of his water.
This conversation was rapidly becoming unsalvageable, but since he was already seated, Jaeme thought he would give it one more chance. “And where were you two headed?” Jaeme asked. “Or are you locals?”
Saara shot him an insulted look, though Jaeme thought she could have immigrated from Tirostaar and settled here for lack of knowing that virtually everywhere else on the mainland was preferable.
“We’re going to Berlaith,” Nikaenor said. Though something about that sounded off, and Jaeme wondered if it might be a lie.
This was ridiculous. Clearly, he didn’t know either of these two, and he was, at best, annoying them. “Sorry about the drink, kid,” Jaeme said, waving at Nikaenor’s water. Jaeme moved to stand, but was cut off as the curvy barmaid rushed toward him, carrying a tray with a fresh jug of ale on it, as well as a pitcher of water. “Your ales, good sir,” she said.
“I was just leaving.” Jaeme reached into his coin pouch and tossing a few buds down on the table. The coins clinked together, and the barmaid gave him a pouty look, which Jaeme might have under other circumstances taken as encouragement and offered to buy her a drink when her shift ended. But with the way his luck was running lately, he would probably discover by morning that she wasn’t nearly as attractive as he’d thought.
“Well,” she said, winking at him, “if you have any other needs, just shout. I’m happy to see to them.” She flashed a smile at him and spun around—too quickly for the pitcher on her tray. Though she reached out and caught it at the last minute, a thick slosh of water tipped over the lip of it, splashing down Nikaenor’s back.
The boy grabbed his cloak hood and pulled it hastily over his head, turning to face the wall so that no one in the room would see. But as he did, Jaeme got a good look at the now-wet skin of Nikaenor’s neck. Thick blue scales had grown in place of the boy’s pale skin, resembling those on a sea drake or other large, predatory fish.
Next to him, Saara stared as openly as Jaeme, and the barmaid gasped. Across the bar, one of the soldiers was staring at Nikaenor like the kid had broken out a vial of blood and started chanting right there in the middle of the bar.
Jaeme didn’t know what in all hells that was, but it spelled trouble for all of them.
“We need to be going,” Jaeme said, scooping an arm under Nikaenor’s and hauling the boy up off the bench. “Headed out of town immediately, weren’t we, friends?”
Under his cloak, Nikaenor nodded furiously. Saara was already on her feet, striding for the door as if she might leave the two of them there to face the oncoming guard.
“Well,” Jaeme said. “Off we go.” He dragged the boy right off the bench and onto his feet, marching him toward the door.
“Wait!” the soldier commanded, and as his voice—which managed to be even louder than the sea lions—faded, everyone else in the tavern held absolutely still.
Jaeme didn’t have the first clue what was going on, but he did know that of the three of them, one grew scales and he and Saara were foreigners. He didn’t relish the idea of having to kill a Sevairnese soldier in self-defense. He might return to Mortiche having failed as a spy and started a war all in one trip.
But despite their short and awkward conversation—and clearly despite his better judgment—he felt somehow protective of these two.
“Run,” he said to Nikaenor.
Saara was already running. The three of them dashed out the door, ignoring the shouts of the soldier behind them. As they headed down the street, Jaeme realized he didn’t have the first idea where to go, but Saara seemed to. She raced
out in front of them, her cloak streaming out behind her, a dagger gleaming in her hand.
Gods, the ship. How was he going to get back into town if the guard was looking for him? His trunk was still on the boat, his coin, everything he’d brought with him from Grisham aside from his sword and the clothes on his back.
They reached the end of the pier, and the raised platform streets gave way to low, wooden walkways suspended just over the marsh, with thick cattail reeds growing on either side. The reeds parted to reveal small dwellings of a pale wood and thatch, also on stilts, scattered sparsely along the path. Jaeme’s lungs started to burn as he followed Saara into the marsh, his boots splashing up water, soaking his pants to the knees.
The three of them didn’t speak until they were deep into the swamp, hidden by the draped leaves of cypress trees, though Jaeme did watch carefully behind them, and noticed Saara doing the same. Nikaenor, for his part, kept his cloak bunched around his shoulders and his hood drawn up over his head.
When they reached a sandy clearing and paused to catch their breath, Saara grabbed Nikaenor by the shoulder. “What in all hells was that?”
Nikaenor pulled his hood farther down over his face. “Don’t look at me! I don’t want you to see.”
Jaeme was still waiting for an explanation. “See what, exactly?”
The boy huddled further under his cloak. “I’m hideous. Malformed. Unfit for society.”
Jaeme rubbed his forehead. “What happened to you? The scales looked like they appeared when your skin got wet.”
Nikaenor nodded miserably. “It’s been happening for years. I don’t know why Mirilina cursed me like this, but I don’t like talking about it.”
“What about you?” Saara demanded, turning to Jaeme. “Have you also been cursed by your god?”
Jaeme stared at her. “What kind of question is that?”
Nikaenor eyed him. “You are cursed, aren’t you? Because my god wants me to be a fish, and her god wants her dead, and I feel the same way about you as I do about her.” He sounded about as miserable at that last admission as he was about his scale problem.